Jane Pain
by BFangz
Summary: A short one shot offering a peek into the head of Patrick Jane.


Jane Pain

He rolled over and tried to ignore the baby's crying. He knew it was his turn but bed felt so good at 3 AM. Patrick Jane rolled over to poke his wife to awaken her, but the bed next to him was cold an empty. His body froze, fear pulsing through him, then he remembered. There was no more warm bed and night time snuggles, there was no more holding a warm, squirming little girl in his arms, feeling so proud of her he could burst. That was gone, replaced by a grinning mask of blood, the dying screams of pain and fear he heard every night, now. The past could sometimes be a poignant dream, but reality was very cold, brutal and harsh.

Patrick sat up and put his bare feet on the cool floor. He sighed, wiping his right eye that was still leaking an uncontrolled, errant tear. At least the grinning face no longer leered down on him. He felt guilty when he got an apartment, but night after night, waking screaming, and staring at that face had gotten too much to bear. No, the pain of leaving was less than the pain of staying, though sometimes, he'd go back sit on the bed, stare at it and imagine the slow, torturous death of his wife an daughter. The images kept getting more and more graphic and realistic, and he had finally realized that he was in some sort of PTSD scenario, but knew that he could never tell anyone. You can't work law enforcement and be as unstable as he'd come to understand he was. He'd had to stop that too.

Now, the house sat empty, unvisited by the last living connection to it. He realized he was sensitive about this, but there was no way he could handle it. He was a coward and a deserter, just like cowards and deserters throughout history. Last week, an enterprising realtor had called, asking if he was interested in "moving" this stagnant property. He'd begun extolling the virtues of the market, the location and his ability to move property when Jane had exploded. After a string of very un-Jane like obscenities assaulted the enterprising salesman. The thrown phone, flying across the bullpen, caused all eyes to critically focus on him.

It was not a good moment. He'd stalked out, to return a few moments later, to make tea. The phone had been returned to his desk, though the cord was broken and the wall block shattered. As he turned, wondering what he'd face, all he saw was the top of heads as everyone diligently paid attention to what was on their desk or terminal in front of them. Even through his haze of anger and pain, he realized he had a room full of good friends. Even Teresa was diligently reading a report, acting as if nothing had happened.

Patrick made the decision to get some couch time and actually fell asleep. When he awakened, it was as if nothing had ever happened and the phone had been repaired.

The cool floor on his feet felt good. He put his hand to his forehead, like a man checking his temperature. He was actually cold and clammy, not what he was expecting. _This is no way to live. I've got to get my life together again. _

"Yes, you did such a great job last time," the voice in his head said to him.

He put his elbows on his knees and rested his clammy forehead on his palms. _Yes, I did do a great job of that, didn't I? _The self-condemning answer was always the same, as was the criticism.

"You might as well feel sorry for yourself. There's not much else you're good at," the voice said.

Patrick made a strangled sound, stood and walked over the the curtain covered window. He hesitated, and then violently flung the curtain to one side. He stared into the semi-darkness, realizing this was not he best view in town. _What do you expect? At least it's not skid row, though I came close to ending up there. _

"Maybe you should have ended up there. At least you'd have reached your level of incompetence." The voice was harsh and mocking.

Patrick clapped his hands over his ears. _Shut up! Shut up, Dammit, just shut up! _He slowly lowered his hands from his ears and looked embarrassed as he realized that he'd screamed that aloud. _I'm losing it. _This was said aloud, but very softly, almost a whisper.

"You lost it a long time ago, fool. You lost it when Red John opened your wife like a big Christmas present, spreading her intestines around. Then raping your daughter, squeezing the life out of her, as she screamed for her Daddy, in fear and agony." The voice was remorseless. "You lost it then, now, and forever, fool! You couldn't do anything right then, and you can't do anything right, now. Stop pretending."

Patrick hung his head, staring at the floor, his bare feet, somehow, mocking him., the words of his own tortured conscience ringing in his ears, echoing through his consciousness, causing more pain to radiate through his soul. He closed his eyes, and unbidden, the thought of falling, free, towards the sidewalk below, rushing to welcoming oblivion, flashed before his eyes.

"Go for it," the voice whispered. "Go for it, but do you think you have what it takes?" Patrick closed his eyes more more firmly, leaned forward and put his head on the glass of the window. "Go for it. It's easy from here. You could do this much, couldn't you?"

Patrick took a deep breath and heard the shattering of glass. Falling felt good, free, welcome. It was wet and cold, but he felt no pain.

Patrick groaned and sat up in bed. His night stand was half way across the bed. The glass in the picture frame had cracked. "Again," he noted. His bed was soaked from the glass of water that had spilled into it. The lamp was on the floor, but when it switched it on, it did still light. He sat on the wet bed, eyes haunted. "I guess I had another bad dream." He squinted, trying to recall it. He shook his head. "Maybe I'm better off not knowing.

The smell of brewing coffee assaulted his nostrils as he entered the bullpen area. "Well, if it isn't our tardy consultant," Teresa began, but Jane held up one hand.

"So shoot, me. I'm human. I over slept."

Teresa's sarcastic look faded to one of concern. "Are you OK? I've seen you looking better."

Patrick smiled and nodded. "A restless night that a good cup of tea should remedy." He flashed his smile, reassuring everyone.

At his desk, he took a sip of tea, ignoring the little voice that was saying, "You can't tell them, you know."

oOOo

**A/N: This is the end. A one shot, I really don't see anywhere for it to go, but it just popped up, so I wrote it.**

**So, what do you think?  
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